The things Sherlock can do
by Nejinee
Summary: There is an astounding list of things Sherlock Holmes can do. And things he can't be bothered to learn. John Watson experiences them all, whether he likes it or not. Humour and eventual m/m.
1. Chapter 1

The things Sherlock can do.

Chapter 1

John Watson woke up on the floor of his bedroom. Perfect. Perfectly terrible. He groaned as he peeled his cheek off the old hardwood. His head thundered and he winced at the light streaming over the bed from the window. "Well, almost made it into bed," he uttered hoarsely, feeling the smoke from last night's pub fresh and raw in his throat. God he'd regret this. God, but it'd been fun. He knew Stamford and Lestrade meeting would be one for the books. Didn't really expect having such a late night though. Coming in at midnight wasn't unheard of at 221b, but six o'clock? Bloody hell.

John breathed in slowly, leaning on his elbow, the hard floor reminding him why man invented beds, and bedding, and pillows. "Ugh," he moaned louder, wiping at his face. His head was being split in two and he knew he deserved it. Fuck, had Sherlock been awake when he'd stumbled home? John tried to pluck at the wispy memories from the night before.

Balls. He remembered trying to get his key in the lock and something about the stairs had him pausing (jacket caught on banister?), but other than that, his homecoming was pure nonsense.

Pushing himself upright, he paused, wobbled, then his eyes flew open. He could smell something. Or could he? He cocked his head to the side, brows furrowing. It smelled like burning. No, wait. Yes. No. Shit. Sherlock.

"If you're burning the corpse of a skunk in the bathtub, or some other bloody horror, Sherlock Holmes, I will gut you." He hissed as he found his pyjama pants. Shucking his shoes, socks and jeans, he slipped into his warm, familiar pyjamas. The ones with the reindeer. The red ones. Throwing his pile of dirty clothes in the vague vicinity of his laundry basket, John then moved to the door, leaning heavily on the frame as he opened it. Oh, he was not well. Oh, medicine. Now. Headache. Aneurysm an eventuality, death thereby a certainty. What was it last night? Rum? In coke? Or just shots? With Guinness? No, Beck's. Ugh.

The smell was alarming now. Pungent, crackling, strangely familiar, yet obviously a figment of his imagination. John trod down the stairs, stomach rumbling.

"Sherlock, I swear I'm losing my mind." He swung into the lounge and around to the kitchen, trying not to focus on the digusting pile of wet rags (novel pages? Skin flaps? Oh God, whatever, don't look) littered over the settee.  
"I, for one second, mind you, thought I could smell breakfast. Cooking. In our flat. But really, not possible."

John stopped short at the sight of his tall flatmate, dark hair in disarray, blue robe hanging loosely over those boring pyjamas, frying pan in hand.

John felt faint. "Are you...?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, top to bottom. "Gin, John? Not your best choice. Try the scotch next time."

"Sherlock..." John murmured, not looking away.

"You've been accosted I see. Redhead. Taller than you? Pity you can't find anyone your size. Must weigh on you."

"What?" John paused in his thoughts. "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning back to ... yes, those were eggs. Fried eggs in a pan. Without a side of human entrails. Or snake vomit. "What are you doing?" John asked.

"Really? I'd suspect it was plainly obvious, John. Surely even you have the mental faculties at this hour to figure out this unraveling trail of clues. Disappointing, but not entirely unexpected."

John closed his eyes and just listened to the pounding in his skull. "Are you..." He breathed in, "...cooking?"

"Eggs. And bacon and sausages and toast." Sherlock's hand reached out automatically and picked up something and shook it over the spattering pan. Anthrax? Who knew.

"You can't - _don't_ cook, Sherlock." John moved around the cluttered kitchen table. God, those test tubes had to go. He'd bin them when Sherlock wasn't looking, which was never. So they'd probably stay there, festering. Sighing, John reached into a cupboard, pulling out one of the first aid boxes he kept in every room. Medicine, yes! He popped a couple pills in his mouth, then moved over to the (also disgusting) sink and filled what he hoped was a clean glass with water. Gulping it all back, he then turned. Sherlock was at the stove, frying eggs. Lord help me, he thought.

A plate beside the stove was piled high with crispy bacon. And the toaster was on. John had to sit down. No seat, so he just stood there.

"Since when do you cook?" He muttered, snatching up a strip of bacon. Mmmmm...delicious. And sweet? Odd.

"Whenever the fancy strikes," Sherlock answered blithely, making it sound like John was the most boring person to have ever graced his presence, while tipping the pan and sliding two gorgeously fresh eggs onto another plate. There was another plate, piled with what? Twenty fried eggs? Lord almighty.

"Why?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed audibly and slammed the pan down. "Why what?"

John chewed slowly. "Is this an experiment? Are you testing crap on me, because that's not fair."

"Life isn't fair," Sherlock tossed the egg flipper and a myriad of utensils at the sink. Some went in, other clattered about, flicking grease everywhere. Terrible racket notwithstanding.

"Please don't poison me, Sherlock," John said with such sincerity that Sherlock turned, eyebrow raised. "I'm hungover, tired and in pain, I don't have time to die. Not today anyway."

Sherlock just stared back at him with those pale blue eyes. "We're all dying. Some of us faster than others. Go with it, John."

"So you are poisoning me?" He snagged another bacon slice. Delicious. Delicious poison.

"Cooking! Frying, roasting, boiling, basting!" Sherlock wiped his hands on John's apron that was tucked into the oven handle. "Science."

"So you really just cooked breakfast? By yourself? But not for an experiment?"

"Of course it's an experiment!" Sherlock whirled, snatching up the platefuls of food. He swished out of the kitchen and deposited the morsels on the coffee table, thrusting aside the newspapers and John's most recent novel (trite, pedestrian literature, John. Do better won't you?)

"Eat!" Sherlock said brightly, that wickedly wide grin breaking across his foxy, demonic face. He's a monster, John thought. I'm going to die here in my PJs. Well, at least they're my best ones. No holes.

"Tell me what you've done to it, then I'll eat." John slumped into his couch, rubbing his temples. Damn, this headache was brutal. Like a foxhunt going horribly wrong in his head. Deranged dogs tearing free-spirited thoughts apart. Left for dead.

"I haven't done anything to the food," Sherlock leapt into his own seat, eyes flicking from the food to John and back again.

"You bloody liar," John snorted. "'Fess up. Now. I'm too arsed to dance around your hints and clues and other prattle. Stop being your annoyingly avoidance-maneuvring self and just tell me."

Sherlock just raised both brows, those bastardly perfect brows, as he smiled wider, white teeth agleam. "I made you breakfast. Well, I prepared breakfast. Made breakfast? No, I didn't slice up the animals you are about to devour. Maybe next time." And like that, John could see that bloody brilliant mind ticking over, contemplating how to legally acquire a full-grown pig and have it slaughtered here at 221b, probably right on the settee. With a sledgehammer.

John gave up. He was hungry and he felt pathetic. "Bugger it all," leaning forward, he grabbed the fork Sherlock provided (had he been stashing cutlery in his robe?) he stabbed at some bacon and slid a couple eggs onto a small plate. It smelled really good. John's stomach rumbled.  
He grudgingly sliced into the egg with his fork. Lifted a morsel to his mouth, then he paused.

Sherlock was staring. Full-on mad scientist staring. Laser beams could have been shooting out his eyes. He'd pulled his feet onto the leather chair and was sat perched like a damn gargoyle.

Fuck it. John closed his eyes and popped the egg into his mouth. Hm, not bad. He chewed some more. Not bad at all, actually. Eggs though. Not exactly difficult to cook. Any child over four could manage this. Although... He picked up another mouthful. Mmmm...  
Now some bacon. Oh, delicious! It was salty and sweet, but not like maple-bacon. Or that honey-glazed disaster from a few months ago. This ... No this was great breakfast fare.

And then Sherlock was on the armrest, his armrest, watching John like a crazed vulture.  
John swallowed. "Can you be sure to scatter my ashes in Northumberland? Anywhere's good."  
"You're not dying, John. You're eating."  
"Yes, but eating what, exactly? Radioactive pig genitalia? Agent Orange free-range eggs?"  
"Just bacon and just eggs. Tesco."  
"I hate you."  
"I highly doubt that, John. I just fed you delicious things you enjoy. One does not hate the bearer of gifts. Delicious gifts."

John swallowed. "I'm so scared. Tell my mum I'm sorry about the train thing. Tell Harry she can forget about the money. I'm not long for this world."

"Oh do shut up!" Sherlock got to his feet and spun away, beginning his typical pacing routine. To the settee, round the coffee table and back to John. Repeat. "You just want to ruin my data. But have no fear, silly little preposterous man, I have gleaned enough. I've gained enough conclusions from your responses and you can go."

"Like hell, you prat." John scooped up some more eggs. "Data my arse. Is this for a case? Someone found boiled and poached in a fancy restaurant? School lunches packed with bleach? Zombie cows running wild, devouring OAPs?"

"Joooohn!" Sherlock groaned, hands flexing madly. "Science!" He spun about, grinning. "Brilliance! Incandescence!"

"Bananarama. What are you getting at, you giant squid?"  
"Squid?"  
John chewed and waved his fork, "flailing arms, etcetera."

Sherlock frowned. "You liked the breakfast, yes?"  
John nodded, "I suppose. Are you going to eat some?"  
Sherlock was staring at the wall, fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes slid to John. "Eat what?"

John breathed out, exasperated. "I. Live. With. A. Toddler." He dropped his fork onto his plate, stood and cleared off to the kitchen. He waved his armful about, determining where to put another dirty dish. "Brilliant," he muttered, dropping the plate into the wet, greasy water in the sink. "Must burn kitchen down. Less work."

He strode back into the lounge. Sherlock hadn't moved. "Eat, Sherlock. For your queen and country, eat something."

"Mmm...no," Sherlock said slowly.  
"When's the last time you ate?"  
"Seventy-three hours ago. Olives. Oh who cares?" He turned on John, eyes ablaze with who knows what madness.

"You're going to fall down and bop your head," john said with a tight smile. "And as your doctor, I insist you eat."

"Laughable."

And there he stood, tall and enigmatic, even in his sleepwear. John looked at the tired grey t-shirt Sherlock wore under his robe and the black loose pyjama pants. Fucking majestic sociopath in flannel. Those fucking curls. God, John wanted to punch that face. Not the teeth or nose, just the face surrounding those bits. Sherlock's gaze slid to him. Sherlock smirked.

John clenched his jaw. They were at it again. He was tired. No time for this clap-trap. "Fine, fall down a flight of stairs. Pass out in traffic. Just have the sense to do it after rush hour. I'm going back to bed."

"You didn't make it to your bed."  
"Shut up."  
"You stink of smoke, John."  
"New cologne."  
"Wonderful," Sherlock's deadpan face was too much.

John passed by him, intent on not returning until dinner. Sherlock's long arm shot out and whipped around his waist. John gasped. "Sherlock! What the hell?"

And once again John Watson wondered what had become of his life. sharing a flat like a student with a nutjob who salivated over blood spatter. Left to wander aim,essly after the prat, taking notes on disemboweled dogs and fingerprints on tea kettles. Sherlock was bizarre and brilliant and currently nuzzling (?) John's hair, inhaling deeply. John's shoulders sagged, resigned. He let Sherlock pin him close, the aroma of last night's pub intoxicating his roommate. Sherlock was stronger than he looked. And frustratingly tall. And lithe. And perfect. Ugh, it made John sick. How could all these attributes be handed out to the lone, raving bloodthirsty neanderthal in London? Not fair.

John cleared his throat, feeling his body warming to Sherlock's closeness.

"Mmmm... All right, off you go." And with that, Sherlock released him with a pat on the bottom. John blushed ten shades of pink.

John just tilted his head, clenched his fists and walked out.

"You're welcome!" Sherlock yelled as he started on the stairs.  
"For what?" John bellowed.  
"Breakfast, of course!"  
"Sherlock?" John yelled back.  
"What now? Can't you get on with your pouting? I'm busy!"

John reached his bedroom door. He gripped the door handle tightly.

"The bloody stove's on fire! Sort it out!"

...

A/N: More to come! This story was just waiting to be written. Thank you Sherlock for being so inspiring! Feedback appreciated. :)


	2. Story has moved

A/N: hello readers. Terribly sorry about not updating this here. It is an ongoing fic, only now it's homebase in AO3. Archive of our own .org. My username is still Nejinee, so come find my Sherlock work over there. :)

/works/777487/chapters/1463074


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